


Bad Bargains

by Vamillepudding



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Prompt Fill, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-17 13:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16975809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vamillepudding/pseuds/Vamillepudding
Summary: Tommy gets kidnapped. While Alfie does his best to rescue him, the Shelbys are considering their priorities.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Tommy gets kidnapped by one of the gang’s enemies. Bad things happen to him. The rest of the family grapple to solve the situation without Tommy there. Alfie of course gets involved whether they like it or not, and they eventually manage to get Tommy back. Bonus points if Tommy is uncharacteristically clingy in the aftermath and/or at some point needs to be carried by Alfie. 
> 
> I tried my best !!

"We’re not paying.“ 

Words have power. Sometimes, the right word can silence a room more effectively than a gunshot, and Polly has just pulled the verbal trigger. 

The Shelbys are sitting at the kitchen table, with one chair being noticeably empty. That spot, the space where a person should be but somehow isn’t, is the reason why they’ve gathered like this. 

“What do you mean, we’re not paying? Of course we’re bloody paying, woman.” Arthur looks both angry and confused, and also like he’s about to punch someone. 

“Get a grip,” Polly snaps. Slowly, she lifts up the letter that was delivered to their house an hour ago. The messy handwriting stands in stark contrast to the expensive paper. “These demands are ridiculous.”

“These demands,” Arthur says quietly, dangerously, “are for my little brother’s fucking life.”  
John and Ada exchange a look. It’s Ada who speaks up. “Aunt Pol’s right. If we give in now, what will stop them from doing it again next week? It might be Finn next time. Do you want that to happen?” 

“It’s not Finn though, is it? I’m getting fucking sick of you people, scheming and scheming until someone breaks in the process.” 

“No one is breaking.” Polly’s steady voice is betrayed by the fine tremors running through her hands as she puts down the note and picks up the ring instead. They all recognised it instantly when Polly first sliced open the envelope with a kitchen knife: It’s the signet ring Tommy wears on his pinky. Both Arthur and John wear one similar to it.

“I can assure you right now that if Thomas doesn’t leave the house each morning knowing something like this could happen, he’s a damn fool. The important thing is not to give in now.” Everyone winces at the sound of the ring hitting the wooden table top again where Polly dropped it. “We have to show the world that this family is not going to be blackmailed.” 

“So you’re just going to let him get killed?” 

“If he lets himself be killed, he clearly didn’t pay enough attention when I first showed him how to handle a gun.” Polly waits until Arthur has slammed the door on his way out, then fixes her gaze on the rest of the family. “Now. What we’re going to do is stall. The note was delivered at 6 pm. They won’t expect a reply until midnight, by which time I’m going to send a response asking for a proof of life.” 

“And what good will that do?” John asks. “They’re gonna chop Tommy up into little pieces.” 

“Ada,” Polly continues as though her nephew hadn’t spoken, “go down to the docks. See if you can’t find someone who’s heard something. John, you’ll do the same in the Garrison. One of you also has to make sure Arthur doesn’t do anything rash. If you find out anything, come to me at once.”

They’ve all already gotten up, putting on coats to follow Polly’s instructions, when John speaks up again. “What happens when we find Tommy?” 

Polly’s smile is sharp enough to cut someone. “Then we’ll show them why no one messes with the Peaky Blinders.”

**

A knock on the door. Ollie comes in, pale but determined. “Alfie?”

“Spit it out, lad.” 

“Tommy Shelby was snatched off the streets this morning. No one’s seen him since.” 

Alfie waits until Ollie has left the room before taking his gun out of the drawer and firing it at the wall until there are no more bullets left.

**

Tommy’s first reaction upon waking up is to headbutt the man currently tying him to a chair. His hands are already restricted in movement thanks to the rope tied around them, but one of his legs is still free, so he uses it to kick and kick until the man stops moving. Only then does Tommy allow himself to assess the situation.

He’s in a strange room with no furniture except for the chair he’s in. There is a door that is closed but not necessarily locked; Tommy intends to find out. Since he can’t get his restraints off, he uses the chair to rock forward, only to crash to the ground when the door is opened right in his face. Pain explodes in his temple, but he doesn’t make a noise. It’s important not to show any weakness. 

“Well,” a voice (male, English, posh accent) drawls. “They did say that you’d try to escape.” Soon, Tommy is pulled upright again and he’s able to get a good look at his captor. 

No one he knows, that’s for sure. Short, a bit tacky, with fair hair and a big moustache. This can’t be revenge, it must be something else. He supposes asking can’t hurt. 

“What do you want?” 

His captor smiles and reaches out a hand to stroke Tommy’s cheek. Tommy tells himself not to react. 

“Not much. Just a few of your race tracks and a bit of money to round the deal up. You’ll be a free man again in no time, Mr Shelby.” 

Tommy almost laughs at that, but doesn’t. There is absolutely no way a ransom will be paid. Polly would never allow it. With good reason, too. Pay once, pay for the rest of your life. 

Also (and he really doesn’t want to think about this, but like with all things in life one would rather not think about, it’s immediately at the forefront of his mind), even if paying were an acceptable option in terms of business, his family still wouldn’t pay. After all, the point of kidnapping is to take away something valuable and then offer it in exchange for something else. And if there is one person who doesn’t fit into that category, it’s Tommy.  

“Mr Bailey,” a second man who just entered the room says. “There’s a phone call for you.” Bailey brushes his fingers over Tommy’s face again, slower this time, caressing the skin in a way that makes him feel like throwing up. 

Then he’s alone again, and able to think of different means to escape.

**

What Alfie has been able to gather so far is this: On August 15th, Tommy Shelby left his house to go to a meeting with an employee. On his way back. Between 10 and 11 am, a couple of men snuck up behind him, knocked him out, and dragged him out of sight. That afternoon, a teenaged boy was seen delivering a letter to the Shelby household, which was soon after exited by several family members. 

“And how do you know all that, mate?” Alfie asks the guy he’s been questioning. 

“You – you asked me. I was just passing, I only saw the boy with the letter, nothing else.” 

“Nothing else? Are you sure? Because I need you to be absolutely fucking sure, don’t I?” 

“I’m sure,” the man is quick to assure. Alfie nods as though in deep thought, then shoots him in the face. He doesn’t bother wiping the blood from his hands afterwards. They’ll get dirty again soon anyway. 

“Alright, Ollie,” he calls out. “Bring in the next lad.”

**

He meant to stay awake, watch out for the door opening. But he’s so tired, and his head is still hurting from where the door hit him, so eventually he drifts off into a light sleep. The next time he awakens, it’s because a hand is travelling up his leg. 

Tommy pretends to be asleep, and only when the hand ventures into areas usually reserved for his and Alfie’s touch alone does he say: “Enjoying yourself, Mr Bailey?” 

Bailey doesn’t appear guilty in the slightest as he takes a step back. “Mr Shelby. I was wondering when you’d wake up.” 

“I can see that,” Tommy says dryly. His captor takes care to adjust his cufflinks, not glancing Tommy’s way as he says: “I’m here because there was a bit of an issue.”

His shoes are very shiny, Tommy notes. Someone must have polished them recently. The owner himself? Doesn’t seem like the type. “Your family,” Bailey continues, “refuse payment before they get a proof that you’re still walking among the living. James here” – he points at an unremarkable man in a suit, who might be a bodyguard or just a regular employee, and who is now giving a small wave – “proposed to cut out one of your pretty eyes, but I don’t think the Shelbys would pay for a cripple. Let’s draw them up a nice letter instead, shall we? Something to reassure your aunt that you’re worth paying for. If I have James free one arm so you can write, I’d ask you not to attack him, please.” 

Tommy waits until James has untied the rope before punching the man. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, since he’s still tied to a chair, but he does manage to give James a black eye, so he’d call it a success. 

Bailey smiles nastily. “Well. I just want you  to remember that you brought the following events on yourself. Get up.” The last bit is directed at James, who shoots Tommy a dirty look. “Stick with bruises for now. Although – maybe one broken limb, just to keep Mr Shelby entertained.”

“What about-“

“For fuck’s sake, just go to the docks and find a rentboy if you want a quick fuck. We don’t want this one broken just yet.” With that rather ominous threat, Bailey leaves the room. Seeing as no one has remembered to put Tommy’s restraints back in place yet, he’s still free to move his right arm, a fact he tries not to draw attention to. 

James scowls. “The boss is no fun. Can you believe that he had me working on Christmas last year? Fucking Christmas day, and I was at work.”

“Perhaps you should reconsider your employment,” Tommy suggests. If James will just get a bit closer, he’ll be near enough to grab. 

“Nah,” James says, giving a small shrug. “The pay’s great, you know? Also, there are other perks.” Instead of stepping into Tommy’s reach, he is now taking off his suit jacket and vest, presumably so that no blood will ruin them. The next moment, before Tommy can react, James captures his lips in a bruising kiss that makes Tommy’s skin crawl.

This is fine, he tells himself, opening his mouth to encourage James. As soon as he feels James’ tongue, he bites down as hard as he can.  
The other man lets out a noise that is part scream and part whimper, tries to pull away, but Tommy grabs his collar, keeping him close even as he spits out the flesh he just bit off. His mouth tastes like blood, but it’s not his, and he feels an odd kind of satisfaction as James’ shouts increase in volume. 

More men are storming in, but he couldn’t care less right now, even when Bailey returns and gives frantic orders, even when aforementioned men move to follow said orders, even when Tommy’s world is enveloped by pain. He keeps smiling.

**

Midnight has come and gone. At three in the morning, another envelope arrives. It includes nothing but a golden tooth smeared with blood and a single sheet of paper that reads _Tommy sends his regards_. 

Arthur punches a wall. “What if it’s his hand next time? I say we give them what they want. Tommy-“ 

“-would agree with me on this. Shelbys don’t pay ransoms. Now if you don’t have anything useful to add, please shut up.” 

“You’re not the head of this family,” Arthur snaps. “I-“ He freezes, listening like everyone else to the sharp knock coming from the front door. They’re not expecting anyone, but their enemies don’t usually tend to knock first. 

It’s John who ends up answering the door, gun at the ready, and finding himself face to face with Alfie Solomons. 

“Evening, John,” Alfie says amiably. “Seen your brother lately?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just pushes past John to go into the kitchen where he finds the family gathered. “I just want to start by informing you all that I, like you, am very, very concerned about the whereabouts of Thomas. Unlike you, however, I put in an actual effort to find out what happened, so-“ 

“I’m sorry,” Polly says, voice dripping in sweet sarcasm, “I must have missed you getting an invitation.”

“Yeah, you must have. What I was saying, right, is that I seem to be the only one with actual fucking progress here. So the way I see it is, you either listen to what I have to say, or your nephew dies. What’s it gonna be?”

**

He hasn’t stopped hurting in a while. What worries him more right now is his thirst. They haven’t given him food or water since his capture. The food part, he’s not giving much thought to, but he’s going to need to drink something at some point. 

There is a small bowl in the corner. Since they have rightly assumed that he’s in too much pain to try an escape (the door is locked anyway, he checked) they didn’t renew his restraints, excepting the ones tying his hands behind his back, so he’s perfectly able to reach it. The bowl is filled with water. Without the use of his hands, though, this would mean… 

Tommy is determined not to touch it. Even if the thirst is killing him. 

Hours later, when Bailey returns, the bowl is empty.

**

“Your family doesn’t want you back, it turns out.” Right – this was to be expected. He knew this, and were the situation reversed he wouldn’t act differently. But the words still sting. Especially when Bailey grabs a fistful of Tommy’s hair, forcing his head up, and continues: “I wonder what you did to piss them off. Maybe we need to give them a bit more incentive.” 

“Mr Bailey,” Tommy says, struggling for control, “they wouldn’t fulfil your demands even if you sent them a whole gallon of my blood. You lost the game, do you understand? You lost. No one is paying for my safe return.” The fingers on his hair tighten, and all he can do is try not to show how much this affects him. His scalp has always been sensitive. Alfie was delighted when he found out. Now, the harshness of the grip brings tears to his eyes, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Bailey. 

“Lost, eh? I wouldn’t be so sure. Word has it that while the Shelbys are pretending like they haven’t lost the head dog of their pack, Alfie Solomons is turning up every stone to find you, and leaving a trail of corpses in his wake. I’m sure he wouldn’t say no to a little clue on where you can be found.”

This new information finds Tommy speechless. He expected his relatives not to give in to the blackmail, and he also somewhat expected them not to bother looking for him much further. It’s like a game of chess. Sometimes you have to sacrifice pawns in order to win. 

In all this mess, however, he never once assumed Alfie would even find out about the whole thing, let alone take action himself. Or maybe Bailey is lying? No, that can’t be it – no one knows about Alfie and him. At least no one knew until now. Bailey would have no reason not to be truthful in this. 

Keeping their relationship a secret was a mutual decision and the natural result of two lifetimes of crime, where every public show of affection for someone can lead to that person being used against oneself. 

Even if Alfie somehow heard about Tommy’s capture, the thought of him actually, actively searching for Tommy is so inconceivable that his mind is struggling to grasp it. Bailey must have misunderstood the situation. He must have. 

The blatant surprise apparently shows on his face, because his captor smiles. “You don’t bite off everyone’s tongue then, good to know. I wonder what the criteria is? Is it the beard? I could grow one if you like.” 

After the initial shock, enough time has passed now for him to have regained his composure. He does nothing but stare coolly back at Bailey, who shakes his head in mock disappointment, then abruptly backhands him hard enough for the chair to topple over, and Tommy with it. Nothing stops his cheek from hitting the floor full force. 

The funny thing about life is that it’s never boring. It keeps coming up with all these little surprises – like now, when Tommy thought bruised ribs, another bruise on his temple from the door banging against it yesterday, and an ankle that’s probably broken were already bad enough, he suddenly realises that no, he was wrong.

That was nothing against the blinding agony he’s in now. Literally blinding, actually, since he blacks out for a few seconds and everything is blurry when he opens his eyes again.  
Rationally, he knows his cheekbone must be fractured, which is not bad as far as injuries go, and has the advantage of being able to get fixed by a doctor rather

easily. 

He’s unable to think of this rationally. 

Bailey makes a noise of disgust. Until then, Tommy hadn’t even realised he’s thrown up. “Jesus Christ,” his captor says, backing out of the room. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Despite having trouble with focusing at the moment, despite having trouble with thinking of anything but the pain, Tommy still feels more mortified than he’s ever been in his life at the fact that Bailey just leaves him lying there where he can’t get up, can’t even move away from the small puddle of vomit, like he’s not even worth that much. 

His last thought before blacking out again is that he really, really hopes Alfie won’t find him like this. 

Won’t find him at all.

**

A crash sounds from somewhere. Several gunshots follow, as well as shouts and a general increase of noise. Something is happening, and Tommy knows he should use this distraction to his advantage, but he thinks if he gets up right now he might cry or be sick or both. 

Fuck this. He might die in this room, but he’s not going to do it huddled in the corner. 

Miraculously, he manages to stand without any incident. Pain is a thing anyone can get used to after a while. His ankle is still broken, which makes moving difficult, and just as Tommy contemplates what his next step might be the door bursts open, and in comes a dishevelled-looking Bailey. He’s got a gun, which he now points at Tommy. “One wrong move, and I blow your brains out. Now get over here.” 

“Go to hell,” Tommy says. Whatever is going on, it can’t be good for Bailey, so if the man decides to put a bullet in Tommy’s head out of fear, or frustration, or just because he can, then there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. 

“Oh, I will.” Bailey removes the safety and slowly walks over, savouring the way Tommy flinches ever so slightly. “But I’m taking you with me. What do you say?” He’s uncomfortably close now. The gun is pushed against Tommy’s temple, right on the bruise. Since his face has been numb for a while now though, this doesn’t have the effect his captor probably hoped for. “Any last words before you go out?” 

This can’t be a bluff. If Bailey is ready to kill his only bargaining chip, then…maybe it’s the coppers, Tommy tells himself. It must be. It’s probably just a bunch of policemen storming the building. 

But it’s too late – the beginning of hope has already started to invade his thoughts. Because maybe it’s not the coppers. Maybe it’s his family. 

Maybe it’s John and Arthur, killing everyone on sight. 

Maybe it’s Polly. 

Then someone enters the room by kicking the door down, and it’s in that moment that Tommy doesn’t even need to take a look to know who it is – to know who it _isn’t_ , rather. Because this has nothing to do with his family. 

It’s Alfie. 

Tommy hates himself for being just a little disappointed.

**

Alfie once decided not to care about anyone ever again. 

It was a quiet decision, the kind you keep to yourself and never tell a soul. He made it when his mum died of a stupid fever, which not one of the doctors Alfie threatened into an examination could cure, and he made it again when he saw more lads die in the trenches than he could ever remember, and he made it a hundred times after that. 

Tommy didn’t change that when they started their thing. He was interesting in a way Alfie hasn’t known for years. He turned up in Alfie’s office, looking a bit like Alfie imagines corpses would look if corpses were in the habit of getting nosebleeds, and didn’t even blink at the gun shoved in his face. Alfie can appreciate that in a man. 

It had never meant to be more than a casual fuck. And it wasn’t, right up until the point where it was. All things considered, it could have gone worse. Even if that means taking a few days off every couple of months to stop Tommy from doing something incredibly stupid and self-destructive. Alfie can do that. 

Even if it means killing a whole bunch of people just to save one man’s life. Alfie can do that, too. 

And here’s the thing, right – Alfie has seen some terrible things over the years, a lot of them caused by his hand. But nothing prepared him for the sight of Tommy held at gunpoint. 

“Not an inch, Mr Solomons,” says Jon Bailey, aged 63, divorced once, no children, no pets, but with an elderly aunt he sometimes visits on the holidays. Alfie feels a bit sorry about the aunt. She’ll have no one left after today. 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the immediate threat, but once or twice, his eyes still shift to Tommy. 

His partner looks, frankly, like shit. But that’s not the worst part. His face is bruised, his clothes are torn and bloody, and he’s favouring his right leg. That’s also not the worst part. 

The worst part, Alfie thinks, is the slight air of surprise to Tommy’s posture, that incredulity hiding behind those razor-sharp eyes. 

Somehow, during those last few days that were spent investigating and worrying and shooting people, it didn’t occur to him once that Tommy might not expect to be saved. 

“If you let him go right now,” Alfie says, his hand and voice equally steady despite the gravity of the situation, “I might be convinced not to bash your head in with a pipe. Bad death, that. Messy. Not as nice as a clean bullet, that’s for sure.” 

“You’re fooling no one. Let’s not pretend like we aren’t all intelligent people here.” The barrel of the gun wanders from Tommy’s temple to the cheekbone that looks like it’s been hit repeatedly with something heavy. Tommy shows no reaction except for a small flinch, barely noticeable. “You’re not going to shoot me, you’re not going to shoot anyone, because I’ve got something you want, and you can’t afford to take any risks.” 

He’s right, Alfie knows he’s right. But then again… “Mr Shelby, say hello to your boyfriend over there. Go on. Be nice.” But then again, he thinks as Tommy directs his frosty gaze towards Bailey and doesn’t say anything, he has never in his entire life let a provocation like that slide. 

There is one problem though. 

Alright, make that two problems: One is the fact that Bailey is using Tommy as a human shield, which means that Alfie can’t get a clear shot, can’t fire without injuring Tommy, too. Also, Baily has started to use his free hand to stroke an obviously unwilling Tommy’s hair, and that’s just fucking unacceptable, isn’t it? 

Across the room, their eyes meet for the first time. 

The one thing that has always united them, that was perhaps the reason why this relationship could work in the first place, is that they are both men who see the bigger picture. They know what needs to be done. 

Tommy nods. Alfie pulls the trigger. 

The bullet hits Tommy’s shoulder and comes clean out on the other side, where it hits Bailey’s upper arm, making him drop the weapon. Both men go down. Despite his previous promise, Alfie doesn’t use a pipe to kill Bailey. A shot in the stomach and the subsequent 30 minutes of absolute agony will have to be enough.

And finally, there is nothing left to do but to lift Tommy up in his arms and leave this cursed place.


	2. Chapter 2

Before the doctors take Tommy into the emergency surgery, his hand catches Alfie’s wrist. The drugs haven’t taken effect yet, but his mind feels fuzzy anyway as he asks: “Will you be there when I-“ He catches himself before he can actually finish that question, already regretting that he opened his mouth in the first place. It would seem that two – three? – days in captivity were already enough to lower his defences, to make him careless. Fuck. Hopefully Alfie hasn’t even heard him right.

Or he’ll blame it on the morphium that he can now feel slowing down his thoughts. Is Alfie saying something? He can’t make out the words. But if Alfie doesn’t want to stay, then that’s fine, he decides, and gives in to the sweet promise of nothingness for the next hours.

**

The sun has set by the time Alfie is done dealing with the immediate aftermath of that rescue mission. Ollie has disappeared off to god knows where (if God were in the habit of knowing such trivial things or, indeed, things in general, which in Alfie’s experience he isn’t) and everyone else has finally gone home. 

It turns out that Jon Bailey owned a couple of Birmingham race tracks that are now Alfie’s race tracks. He doesn’t feel bad about this. If he hadn’t taken this opportunity to expand, someone else would have. 

Now that all is over and done with, he just wants to go home. Home means London, means Camden Town, but at some point along the line, it has also begun to mean Tommy. So if that means spending some time in Birmingham, so be it. His people can handle things on their own for a few days. 

To make good on that decision, he goes straight to the Shelbys’ house where he lets himself in with the key John foolishly left lying on the kitchen table yesterday, and enters Tommy’s room before anyone can spot him and complain.   
Tommy is reading the newspaper, because of course he is. Probably reckons that the worst thing about his capture is that he’s no longer up to date on which politician screwed up again. 

But then he lowers the paper to look at the intruder, and Alfie thinks that no, not even Tommy can be that casual about what happened, not with a bruised face like that, not with that look in his eyes. 

“And suddenly there came a tapping. Did Arthur let you in?” His speech isn’t slurred. Alfie doesn’t know why he thought it might be, after the surgery that would have taken care of that cheekbone. Tommy’s words are as clear as ever, able to tear a man to shreds if he isn’t careful. 

“’Tis the wind and nothing more, except it’s also me, coming to check that you haven’t ripped those stitches out yet and gone back to work.” 

“Not just yet,” Tommy says. “Don’t suppose you’d agree to bring me a glass of that whiskey over there? – No, didn’t think so” he adds when Alfie instead takes the bottle from the table in the corner and pours its content onto the floor. 

“So,” says Alfie, sitting down on the chair next to the bed and leaning his cane against the wall, “how are you feeling?”

“Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know perfectly well. “Wanna know what I think?”

“Not particularly,” Tommy says coldly. “Maybe you should go, eh? Been here far too long.” 

“Fucking hell. That’s a nice way of saying thank you, that is. Better get some more sleep, this perpetual state of wakefulness can’t be good for you. Or the people around you, for that matter.” The chair isn’t very comfortable, but it’ll have to do. Alfie makes sure to take off the hat and his overcoat before making himself at home.  

“I think I asked you to go.” Tommy is doing his best impression of a man ready to kill someone with his bare hands. Alfie is overcome by the sudden urge to kiss him, but has a feeling that any attempt to get close to him would result in a fist to the face. Not entirely undeservedly, perhaps. So instead he just props up his feet on the edge of the bed. 

“Can’t go while it’s cold outside, mate. I’ll fucking freeze to death in this weather.” 

“It’s summer.” 

“Oh, I’m cold-blooded. You don’t want to send me into my own personal damnation, do you, Thomas?” Alfie asks as he takes off his waistcoat, too, and pointedly closes his eyes. 

Later that night, he is woken by a scream, and promptly falls off his chair. 

Tommy is thrashing and turning. It’ll only be a matter of time until he opens the gunshot wound if he carries on like that, so Alfie gets up and does the first thing he can think of, which is to physically hold Tommy down and force him to cease his movements. At first, it seems to work: Tommy goes still instantly. But then the shaking starts, and now Alfie is starting to think that maybe his method wasn’t the best course of action after all. 

“Tommy,” he tries. “Wake up, love.” More shaking. He almost wishes that it really were winter, that he could blame this on the cold.   
Tommy’s eyes snap open after a few more agonising moments of waiting. “You weren’t there, earlier,” he says, the words barely more than a hoarse whisper. “I asked if you’d be there, and you weren’t. I thought-“ He doesn’t need to finish the sentence for Alfie to know exactly what he thought. This isn’t a conversation either of them need to have right now, though. 

“Go back to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Fuck it, Alfie thinks, and gets into bed with Tommy. 

When Arthur comes in the next morning to check in on his brother, he finds him still asleep, tightly wrapped into Alfie’s arms.

**

When he woke up in the hospital, the first thing he noticed was that Alfie wasn’t there. He didn’t even have time to time to panic about that, though, because then he noticed who was there instead. 

Aunt and nephew looked at each other. It was Polly who spoke first. 

“I wasn’t going to pay.”

“I know,” Tommy said. 

“Arthur wanted to. But Shelbys don’t pay ransoms.” 

“I know” he repeated, because he did know. Because he agreed. Because this was what Polly herself had taught him, once upon a time. 

She moved to leave then, having delivered her message, but turned around one more time. “Don’t die. This family needs you.” 

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Nothing of what Polly told him is news to him. He knew it when he was 10 years old, he knew it when he was beaten up by a bunch of men in a dark room, and he knows it now, two days after the rescue, when he’s lying awake next to Alfie. 

No point in postponing it any longer. Might as well get it over with. After all, this is what Tommy has spent almost 48 hours working up his nerve for. 

He reaches over and gives Alfie’s shoulder a shake, then another one until the other man grunts: “For fuck’s sake, don’t you ever sleep?” 

“Alfie.” 

There must be something in the way he said it, because the owner of that name now sits up, instantly alert. “What’s wrong?” 

“You spoke to my family, planned to break into that warehouse. You needed them to do it. You must’ve spoken to them.”

“I did,” Alfie agrees, his wariness detectable even from the other side of the bed, every part of his body radiating vigilance. 

“They told you the situation, but you must’ve already known about that. They told you the demands, but you must have had that figured out already, too.” 

“What can I say? I’m a smart bloke. Always did get top marks in school, I did. Bet you did, too, eh? Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. You’re a smart lad, too.” 

He doesn’t allow himself to get distracted. Not now. Not with this. “Polly told you that they wouldn’t agree to anything Bailey wanted,” he guesses. “She told you they would try a rescue if the benefits outweighed the risks, but otherwise, you’d be on your own.” It’s a shot in the dark, but just like Alfie believes he can read Tommy’s eyes, his own eyes, too, tell a story. “You have a business to run too. You knew she was right. So my question is, Alfie – what were the benefits of all this? What did you get out of it, eh?” 

For once, Alfie doesn’t immediately answer. Then, slowly, like the words are being forced out of him: 

“I did take over his racetracks, but-“ 

And just like that, he’s not in any pain anymore. He stopped taking the prescribed pills immediately and spent the past two days hurting practically all the time. Now he’s just numb. To test this, Tommy absently touches his cheek where they remodelled his cheekbone. Nothing. What a curious sensation. He pokes harder still and discovers that he appears to have lost the ability to feel anything at all. 

“-stop that,” Alfie snaps. “As I was saying, if you’d fucking bothered to listen, I may have benefited a tiny bit, but really if you look at the grand scheme of things, it is absolutely fucking clear to any man who’s not a fucking moron that I did not come looking for you to gain some fucking tracks.” 

“Of course not. You rescued me out of love, eh? The great Alfie Solomons, rushing to the rescue of the love of his life.” 

“And what if I did?”

“Then I’d say you’re a liar on top of everything else.”

Alfie stands up so fast that his cane hits the floor with a loud thud. “Yeah, you know what, Tommy? Fuck you, mate.” And just like that, Tommy is alone again, thinking, absurdly and against all reason, that Alfie has never seemed more attractive than in this moment.

**

Sometimes Alfie wishes he’d drink. Everyone else in his life does (which isn’t that surprising, considering his place of work), and from what he can gather, it seems to be everyone’s favourite way of escape. Well, that, or sex, but neither of those are options. 

So because Alfie isn’t in the habit of drinking or fucking people that aren’t Tommy, he just wanders through the depressingly bleak streets of Small Heath, thinking of the way Tommy cried out when the bullet hit him. It was a necessary move, and he’s always had good aim, but he keeps thinking of the What If – what if the bullet had struck just a few inches to the left, what if Bailey had moved in the last second, what if Tommy will now forever associate that scar with Alfie. 

It's not a nice thought, but if Alfie doesn’t wallow in self-pity he’ll surely think of their last conversation instead, and then he’ll get angry. 

He's trying so hard not to get angry. 

They didn’t break up. It wasn’t a breakup. If Tommy thinks it is, well, then he is clearly wrong, isn’t he? Because if their relationship ever did end, it – alright. It would be exactly like this, wouldn’t it, seeing as Tommy is one manipulative son of a bitch and Alfie allows himself to be provoked way too easily. It would appear that even after more than a year, he still hasn’t learned his lesson. 

Neither, apparently, has Tommy. 

If he did drink, Alfie thinks this would be the moment where he’d down his glass of rum to prepare for the confrontation lying ahead. Things being the way they are, he’ll just have to choose the less dramatic route of simply walking back to the house. 

That’s alright, though. For Tommy, he’d walk a lot longer if he had to. 

He'd walk to the edge of the world and beyond.

**

Tommy ruins things. Usually with neither purpose nor malicious intent, but that doesn’t change the inevitable results. He ruins things, and one day soon he’ll have everyone whom he ever meant anything to pushed away. He’ll be all alone with his thoughts then, no one to distract him from them for even a minute, which is perhaps the worst kind of punishment there is. 

When that happens, he’s not going to last very long at all. 

In retrospect, he probably should have known that his relationship with Alfie wouldn’t last either. He _did_ know, knew it from the very beginning. But then the occasional fuck turned into a weekly one, turned into spending whole weekends together, turned into surprise visits and late-night phonecalls and games of chess and taking walks and trying to figure out when Alfie’s birthday is and then spending a couple of weeks silently panicking about whether a gift would be inappropriate or appreciated. 

Falling in love was never the plan, but then, neither were most things in Tommy’s life. And like most things, this, too, has turned into a monumental fuckup. 

Alfie is probably on his way to London by now. He has half a mind to call Ollie. Just to inform him that his boss might be in a bit of a mood when he gets home. Then again, that would presuppose any hurt feelings on Alfie’s part, which Tommy isn’t too sure about. Annoyed that he lost a quick screw, maybe. 

Maybe he’ll send a card soon. Just let Alfie know that their business partnership still stands. Or should he offer something more? Alfie did save him. Granted, he did it for his own advantage, but Tommy still owes him, and he can’t stand the thought of owing anyone anything. Perhaps he can give Alfie a better deal on the rum trade he has with the Peaky Blinders. Well, he’ll see. Next week will be soon enough. 

He feels better now, his mind clearer. He has a plan, and plans are good. It’s almost like he’s finally regained control – over himself, his love life, the business, the whole fucking world. 

All of this crumples to pieces when Alfie walks back in.

“Shut up.” As far as conversation starters go, this was one of his nicer ones. “I can look into that pretty face and know exactly what you’re going to say next, because I have recently acquired the power of mind reading. Funny business, that. So if you were going to tell me that you expected me to have hit the road by now, you can just shut your fucking mouth and listen.” Tommy, faintly embarrassed, stops himself from saying that exact same thing, and raises an expectant eyebrow instead.

Maybe this is where - 

For once he doesn’t have a pessimistic prediction on what’s going to happen next. Whatever Alfie is going to say – there is no way it can make things worse somehow. 

“I got you a gift,” Tommy blurts out, and Alfie stops dead in his tracks.

“You what?”

“A gift. For your birthday. I know it was in May, and that we don’t do this sort of thing, but Ollie told me, so I got you a gift.”

“It’s August,” Alfie says, dazedly, like the conversation has gotten away from him. Maybe it has, for the first time in his life. 

“I know.” He’s had it since April, actually, but then on the day of Alfie’s actual birthday Alfie didn’t say anything, so Tommy didn’t say anything. He’s had half a mind to dump it inside the river a number of times. But he never did get around to it. 

And then, something odd happens. Alfie starts to laugh. It’s the laugh of a man who feared he lost everything and discovered that this, indeed, is not the case. He laughs, and laughs, and when he’s done he comes to the bed to kiss Tommy on the mouth. 

In the first moment, it’s like he’s back in that room, like this is one of Bailey’s goons taking liberties. 

But there is no force and no blood, no bugs crawling under his skin at the mere notion of it. 

Alfie, clearly noticing him freezing up, stops and pulls back a little in order to properly look at Tommy. He doesn’t ask if he’s alright, which somehow helps. 

Is he alright? Tommy isn’t sure. During the whole time he was captured, it didn't seem like the situation was worth getting truly upset over. There were other things to do, like trying to escape and trying not to die. 

Now, he’s achieved both of those. In a few days he’ll take up the paperwork again, and as soon as he can walk without keeling over, he’ll be back on the streets.

There is no question about this, no counterargument to be made. Tommy can move on, so he will. 

And really, isn’t that what it’s all about? 

So he buries his fingers in Alfie’s hair and succumbs to the kiss, and finally feels like he’s left that room behind.

**

Arthur knows that historically, he’s not been a great brother. One time, back in school, an older boy beat Tommy up. Just caught him after class, beat the shit out of him, left him lying in the mud. It should have been Arthur’s job to take care of this. He didn’t. Never got the chance to, seeing as the following day, Tommy took a razor with him to school and made that boy regret ever laying a finger on him. Said boy never did it again. Didn’t have any fingers left, did he? 

The point is that Arthur wants nothing more than to keep his family safe. And ever since his mum let Arthur hold the bundle of blankets that was his brand-new little brother, the latter has been a part of that family. 

Him getting kidnapped is unacceptable. And yet again, there is nothing Arthur could do about it. Again. This time, Tommy didn’t have a razor, but he had that insane guard dog also known as Alfie Solomons, who is just as deadly. 

He knows, too, that Tommy would never blame him for his lack of action. Somehow, that makes things worse. Tommy should be angry, should be absolutely fucking livid about his big brother’s failure. But he isn’t, and hell if that doesn’t make Arthur feel even guiltier. 

He hovers in the house until he hears Alfie leave Tommy’s room, waits until the other man has gone down the stairs, then puts his hand on the door handle – and hesitates. 

He goes to the Garrison to have a drink instead.

**

On Christmas Eve, an old lady named Catherine Bailey opens the door to find a bouquet of flowers delivered to her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, this was so much harder to write than the actual kidnapping part. I'm only a LITTLE nervous about posting this.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you think ! x


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